Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Limits on Speed Limits

From the ever-increasing “Why do we bother to bitch?” files, here’s a very practical suggestion: Let’s just do away with speed-limit signs.
At this point in time, why do they even exist?
This isn’t coming from a toddling old geezer barely able to see over a steering wheel through glasses as thick as a Citronella candle. I regularly exceed the speed limit by five or 10 miles an hour.
The scary thing is, while zipping along at 65 in a 55 mile-an-hour zone, my car and I often wind up spinning around in a cloud of dust like Wile E. Coyote getting sideswiped by the Road Runner.
Speed limit, we don’t need no steenkin’ speed limit.
That’s the mantra of the majority of wackadoos that have somehow managed to be issued drivers’ licenses.
Make you a bet.
Take the Datsun out onto one of two thoroughfares – either the Rte. 422 by-pass or Rte. 202 – at a time when traffic isn’t backed up to Blue Bell. Now, count the number of vehicles you witness driving within the parameters of the so-called 55 miles-per-hour speed limit – go ahead, even give them up to 62.
If you’re on either road for 10 miles or more and count up to five, you win the bet.
I’m confident my betting record will remain the very epitome of perfection..
From the second Mr. or Ms. Lead Foot hit the motorway these days, those black-and-white speed limit signs may as well have been buried in a hole by a rabid gopher. The rule of thumb is, whatever or whoever it is, pass it. If you can’t get around on the outside, go on the inside, drive over them, go airborne if necessary.
If no options for passing exist, blow your horn and immediately begin flashing the half-peace sign as frantically and as suggestively as possible.
And you know what, I don’t honestly care how fast some moron is driving, just as long as once or twice a month I see one of ‘em pulled over by the law.
But I might as well be waiting for something of intelligence to come out of the mouth of Sarah Palin.
I was doing my usual 62 while traveling east on 422 recently when essentially the entire contents of the left lane went flying by me like it was first-come, first-serve free gas off the next exit ramp.
But instead of getting my knickers in a twist, I began smiling as if a $50 bill had just blown in the window. I knew something these inconsiderate ass wipes didn’t – there was a speed trap just ahead, a place where, 24-7, a cop sat. Consistently. As in, all the time.
This was a lawman’s wet dream. He could’ve been writing tickets until carpal tunnel set in. He could start his own conga line with the speedsters he’d have lined up on the side of the road.
Moments after the speeding scofflaws sped by I was going to see justice served.
Sure enough, as I cleared the ridge that I knew lay just before my law-laden nirvana, I saw the police car. Yes, oh glorious yes, he was there.
Unfortunately, I didn’t see anything resembling an automobile pulled over accompanied by flashing red-and-white lights.
Barney Fife simply let them all go by.
Now, if the cops don’t even blink when a driver exceeds the speed limit by triple figures, why should anyone else?
The fact is, no one else does these days.
As for the damn signs, take each and every one of ‘em down.
And why do we bother to bitch?

Friday, June 10, 2011

Another Rich Idea

I flat-out despise the rich.
With every fiber of my soul.
When I discover someone has money, it doesn’t matter whether I like that person or not, I hate them.
You have to realize, I spend a good deal of time hating. I hate the living and the dead, the vegetable and the mineral, the good and the bad, the black and the white and the brown and the yellow.
There’s a real Pier 6 brawl going on at the top of my hate list as to who or what I hate with the most passion. But over the long haul, Numero Uno with a bullet, has been and probably always will be the rich.
Since I’ve never believed in absolutes, I would imagine there are some terrific people of wealth out there, those that attempt to help and heal with their cash. I suppose there are those that see great injustices to man and beast and are intelligent, generous and human enough to rub it down with the salve of their leather-bound checkbooks.
I just see way too many horses’ asses with money on the other side of the financial fence.
And predictably, these heartless jerks are greedy, self-centered and worst of all, utterly oblivious to that 96 percent of the world that never will even sniff the kind of cash they piss away on a lunch they’ll never remember.
Take the simple-headed gherkin who happens to be the CEO of General Motors, Dan Akerson.
Now, you’d think Danny Boy would have other fish to fry, considering GM hasn’t made a car worth a damn in about 40 years.
Oh, I stand corrected, GM cars have some value. They represent the voices of heavenly angels to thousands of auto repairmen around the globe who are able to put their children through college on the income derived from repeatedly fixing any and all GM models.
But instead, Danny is going to fix something of his own. He’s going to fix our economy and our environment, bless his Christian soul.
His solution?
Mr. Akerson wants the federal gas tax raised by as much as $1 a gallon.
I’ll allow a few moments for applause and genuflection.
At a time when a gallon of gasoline is approaching the cost of a decent dinner, this guy wants the American public to be forced to spend even more to fill up.
I suppose his cure for a broken foot would be to crush the ankle.
What’s even more uplifting is this buffoon’s reasoning for further gouging the public purse strings.
By raising the federal tax on gasoline, consumers will be forced to buy more fuel-efficient cars.
Out of touch?
The only thing ol’ Dan is touching can be found between his legs. Maybe.
Yo Dan, got some breaking news for you.
People can’t afford to buy a car these days, let alone your new “fuel-efficient” cars which, reportedly, will be going up an average of some $3,500 over the next couple of years.
They’re budgeting their ever-dwindling salaries on trivialities like food products, which, by the way, are shrinking in quantity while going up in price. They’re spending their hard-earned on throwaway items like utilities. You know, just in case their kids might want to see in the dark or avoid those petty annoyances like frostbite.
In case you missed it Dan, the economy’s dropping faster than an anchor weighed down by an anvil. What good is a new car when you can’t afford the gas to put in it? But on the plus side, at least that unused brand-new car in your driveway will be fuel-efficient.
Yep, I’m sure everything will turn out peachy for our guy Dan. With his firm grasp on the wants and needs of the American consumer, he’ll run GM further into terra firma, declare bankruptcy, then parachute out from under the financial abortion and retire a billionaire.
Just another typical, rich ass wipe.
Like I said, with every fiber of my soul.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

You there, you with the stars in your eyes

Checked out the internet today (reluctantly), and because I’m a helluva guy, I felt compelled to keep my multitude of readers up to date with the important issues of the day.
Just doin’ my part, you know?
I’ll give you the headlines, allow them to sink in, and then we can discuss them in depth.
Ready? Here we go:
“Justin Bieber sports earrings”
“Aniston, new beau go public”
“Katie takes Suri for swim”
Now, I’m not a taskmaster. And despite my occasional verbal callousness, if you don’t feel properly informed, or if these subjects are a bit too overwhelming to delve into, politically or otherwise, I’ll gladly back off these hot-button issues.
But as they are the major stories of the day, we really should put the humor on the backburner for a change and deal with the realities of the cold, hard world.
You know, my many readers, as we once again turn to the fingers on one hand to compute the average IQ of the average American citizen, the sad reality we face is that in way too many folks’ ever-shrinking minds, inconsequential drivel like the three very real headlines above really does constitute the vital news of the day.
The world has become so celebrity-driven and so accepting of soft Hollywood gossip as hard news for daily discussion that these stories that affect virtually no one and that no one with an ounce of gray matter rattling around in their noggin should even give a microsecond of a thought to are an integral part of the daily news grind.
I’m old enough to remember a time when a news program actually featured news – who died, what important social service is about to go out on strike, what countries were exchanging gunfire - you know, incidents that actually affected multiple human beings on the planet.
And nowhere, barring the death of a film legend or a movie queue that wound around three city blocks, did anything about movie stars, TV stars, pop stars, reality stars or self-declared stars garner a second of televised time.
These days it’s not unusual to see blatant plugs for upcoming ABC television programs on ABC-affiliated local news programs. It’s also very common to see an entertainment segment dedicated to who’s dating George Clooney, who’s boffing Robert Pattinson and what underfed UNICEF poster child was just welcomed into the Pitt-Jolie clan.
And the all-too-obvious question, kiddies, is, who cares about this crap?
Does it matter to anyone but the subjects of these P.R. wet dreams who they’re dating, impregnating or with whom they’re doing the horizontal mambo? And most importantly, why does it matter to John or Jane Q. Public? Do they honestly have a stake in this stuff?
The reality is, these haphazard moments in time have zero bearing on anyone’s life.
Now, the bulk of the time, I neither know nor care what’s going on in the world. But contrary to the continual claims of my wife and family, I’m not stupid.
I understand that in tough economic times or times of war, both of which we sure as spinach are in, everyone is looking for a little escape from the daily hobnail boots to the groin. So it’s easy to get a little carried away in the fantasy world of mansions, limousines, Max Factor and nose candy. But the last time this many brainless zombies got carried away to such an extent, some smacked ass named Jones was doling out free samples of Kool-Aid.
I mean, come on people, how about paying a little more attention to the “stars” that share actual living space with you? How about idolizing the people who save greyhounds, or feed the poor or care for the elderly?
It sure ain’t glamorous and it won’t get its own feature story on “ET,” but it beats ogling the TV to get the lowdown on Michael Jackson’s postmortem penis size.
I’m pretty sure he had one.

Monday, June 6, 2011

What's Textspeak for Gunfire?

If I see another kid walking in a mall, driving down the street or, generally, anywhere out in public hunched over, with his or her head glued to a phone/computer device, with thumbs rattling away at the keyboard as if the very planet were at stake, I just may have to pull a Texas bell tower.
Just lock and load and blast every one of those godforsaken computer-texting-pieces-of-Microsoft-crap to hell and back – even if it means taking a few teenaged thumbs along the way.
I’ve staggered through this rattrap of a world for almost 60 years, forced to consume every piece of cow dung and smelly shred of garbage heaped upon my plate. But this one may have finally sent me in search of something devised by ol’ Sam Colt.
It’s the very essence of obscene. A young mind, relatively new to the world, being exposed to its wonders – the beauty of nature, the aesthetics of the human form, the artistic  creations of man – and instead, the only planetary article worth inspection is some eight-inch-by-six-inch piece of plastic?
And for what? To “talk” to someone?
News Flash, Einstein. You have a phone in your hand.
Now really, jerk-offs, are you so ego-driven and self-centered that you believe every thought that sashays across your cerebellum is so mind-numbingly brilliant, relevant and unique that it has to be shared? If those endless texts that seem so vitally important to you were truly that wonderful and vibrant, we could put the kibosh on all of this claptrap about our supposed inferior educational system and start worrying about important things like the new prime time TV slate this fall. After all, if the next generation is so rich with brilliant ideas, we’ll be so far ahead of the rest of the world, intellectually, in every aspect of human existence, that China, Japan, Europe and every other person on every other piece of soil on the planet will be looking up at American asses for the remainder of eternity.
But the fact is, the drivel that passes for communicative texting consists of such enthralling rhetoric as, “Just got down the escalator, saw the cutest guy, should I go with blue or yellow nail polish tomorrow?”
Wow, move over Mr. Hemingway, I think we have the next great literary mind in our midst.
How about joining the human race for about six seconds and enjoying the tangible things that surround you? How about smelling a freshly mown lawn or climbing a tree? How about, for Chrissakes, just reading the menu at a Chick-Fil-A?
Hell, crawling around on the ground and shooting marbles would have to be a better option to telling your BFF that mom’s serving up meat loaf for dinner again.
I can’t count how many times I’ve been in the park, out to dinner, at a show, even on the beach, and instead of looking around and enjoying a feeling of community with my surroundings, I’m looking at dozens of brain-dead Quasimodos battering away at their Blueberrys like mentally challenged typists trying to finish a book report.
The ambiance of the moment? Apparently, it ain’t as interesting as repeating the events of the day with the person who was there with you in the first place.
The world, with all of its dreck, still has its moments of fascination and wonder. There are still plenty of gorgeous trinkets to be found under the trash heap.
But you’ll never realize that if your head is buried in IBM’s latest thousand-dollar trinket.
It’s coming, texters, the day is coming.
Just keep it up and there’ll be a BFD whizzing past your heads.
Then it’ll be my turn to LOL.